Imagine that
at some point in your life, you’ve already died,
and what you’re living now is the projection of your mind
trying to make sense of it.

They say as the heart stops,
consciousness fades within 10 to 20 seconds,
but for your perception, time expands.

Now, when was it?


Write it down
as a response to this poem
in the comment section,
or in your notebook—it’s not the point.

As for me,
I can’t really think of anything more serious, but
I remember being about to open up to someone I was in love with back then
with all my heart.

I was chained to the chair; he was sitting across from me.
I couldn’t consciously move any of my muscles,
yet chains were jingling in the high frequencies.
And I held my breath—guess I was trying to stretch not them, but time,
as if when I’m not breathing, the clock isn’t ticking—then finally,
my tongue slithered, but the feeling
wasn’t mutual.

Not long after,
my best friend told me that someone he liked
liked him back.

I was happy for him; I hope—but I must point out —
I felt I’ve lost something with two of my friends
at the same time.
Something I’ve never had.

By night,
it hit my gut like a punch,
I ended up stuck in a cycle of throwing up every 1 or 2 minutes.

Toilet.
Tears and coughing.
Blur in the eyes.
Blue light flashing.

Toilet in the hospital.

They examined me and ran some tests — suspected it was
intoxication,
appendicitis,
gastric ulcer,
something else,
but it wasn’t. Nobody could tell me anything. I was emptied,

but it stopped only in the early morning, and the doctors let me out.
I don’t remember how I was walking out of the hospital, but outside,
there were metallic yellow and orange, and
I was inhaling the air while walking to the taxi
with no idea what had happened to me.


And now,
count it up.
How much time has passed?
How real does it still feel to you,
or does it?
And are you trying to do something about it?

As for me,
I think it’s been about 21082018 0 seconds now.